Turn Away
by DaGeekGoddesses
Summary: After her mother's death, Indie must come to terms with the father that she never knew, and remake her life in the wake of tragedy.
1. Chapter 1: I'm Awful Just To See

**A/N: I know what you're thinking.**_  
_

**Oh, God, not _another_ of these stories. When will all these dumb authors realize that no one likes this plot line?**

**Well, I've come here to say no, that's not entirely the case. **

**Because I'm taking this cliched plot line, and I'm turning it around. Friends, I am determined to change this overused concept forever, if it kills me. So, I hope you enjoy, because it is the fruit of my crazed determination. Cheers.**

**You know the Read-Review drill... Right?**

**Enjoy!**

**~Sunshine**

_Turn away_  
_If you could get me a drink of water_  
_'Cause my lips are chapped and faded_  
_Call my Aunt Marie,_  
_Help her gather all my things_  
_And bury my in all my favorite colors_

_My sisters and my brothers_  
_Still_  
_I will not kiss you_  
_'Cause the hardest part of this is leaving you._

The fluorescent lights shine on her barren scalp, making it look like she has a halo circling the crown of her head.

She smiles, her fractured, blue-green eyes crinkling at their corners. Despite being sick this long, she never stopped smiling. She was immortal.

"Indie, you'll be okay. Don't worry about me. It's my time, apparently."

"You didn't deserve this."

She takes all her strength, and forces herself to sit up so she can kiss my forehead. "Indie dear, who ever deserves death if they've always repaid for their sins?"

"Then why are you going to, if you always repaid?"

"There was unfinished business."

"Like?"

The delicate woman sighs. "I don't have enough time to tell you. You'll find out soon enough, though."

"Does it have to do with Dad?"

"...Yeah."

I sigh. "Then I don't want to know."

She nods, in understanding.

We sit in silence. I can hardly stand listening to her breaths when they're that shaky.

"Indie?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you sing? Just once more, for me?"

I nod, relaxing my voice box and sucking in air. Lyrics start flowing from my mouth like a river of noise, and I close eyes as I squeeze her hand tighter. She squeezes back, and nods her head to the beat.

My voice starts traveling higher close to the end of the song, and, for a second, I could be singing with angels, and I silently pray, 'Let her make it to you safe.'

As my voice trails to the end, the tempo of her heartbeat slows.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Her last exhale.

A scream.

And my first tear as an orphan.

Our story starts.

Reyna Melbourne was the British - American daughter of a wealthy family who lived in New York, the youngest of three, and probably the smartest. She graduated valedictorian in her class, only to turn around and study fine arts. Her family had partially disowned her after she had been accepted, but still kept in some touch.

There, Reyna met a man whom she once claimed to be the love of her life. They met at a party, and got along immediately.

Reyna kept on studying art - specifically, modern abstract and pop. Her idol was Warhol. She had taken a summer in high school just to fly to various art museums to see his works. She was going to be just as famous. And she had already been making a name for herself, and had sold a few pieces already.

And then came sophomore year.

This love of her life and her decided to go to some party, got drunk, and some stupid shit happened.

Meanwhile, an offer had come from LA for her to join an art team.

After the party, Reyna wasn't sure about anything anymore, in New York.

She broke up with this love of hers, packed her bags, and flew out to LA. She took the job, and just as she had started her first piece, making art for various private investors, Layla started getting sick.

Reyna was nineteen, single, becoming famous, and pregnant.

Despite being with child, she pushed on, taking art as it came. Her team offered to help raise the baby when it arrived. Her family fully disowned her at that point. They would not have anything to do with a girl who got pregnant in college, refused to get a stable degree, and didn't rely on anyone. Too unconventional.

While on a trip to Denver to discuss a series being presented in the art museum there, she went into labor, and gave birth to her daughter, Independence, four hours later.

And, right then, Reyna Melbourne decided to live in Colorado, catering to this museum as she raised a baby girl.

This is when I finally drown out of the recitation of my mother's life.

A woman with spiky red hair - Reyna's best friend and my 'aunt', Kaitlin, keeps on reading this subdued version of my mother's turbulent life. I add in what she would never say: the party. Her getting disowned. The fact that my mother broke all ties with my father, and not the other way around.

I straighten the hem of my dress, and tense my legs, waiting for my turn to go say something about her.

Kaitlin steps away from the podium, and, as the pastor introduces me, I stand to talk.

When I'm there, I clear my throat, and meet the eyes of everyone in the room.

"Hello. I'd like to thank you all for showing up to pay tribute to my mother's death. As you may know, I am Independence, Reyna's... Daughter." I clear my throat to mask tears. "Um... I'd like to talk about my mother's career that she had. Reyna was always gifted at art, and she saw what others never could. So, I'm glad she was successful while she did make art. I hope we all can remember this crucial aspect of her life as well. Thanks... And, Reyna, if you can hear this..."

I only hesitate for a second.

"We love you."

When I was little, I once asked my mother why I never had a father. She gave me that worried look, and said, 'When you're older."

Later, when I was twelve, I learned the truth. When I asked why she left my father, she said, "Because it never would have worked. You would know it, too."

Being completely inexperienced in the ways of dating, I didn't know.

Whenever I asked for a name, she gave me nothing. She said that I know his name, though. Whenever I asked for what he was studying, she'd get this faraway look, and mutter, "fucking cartoons, of all things." Whenever I asked for a physical description, though, was when she was vague above all. All she'd say was, "You have his hair. You have his eye shape, but your eyes are my color, not..."

His?

"You have his nose. And that's where the similarities stop."

Then, she'd go back to whatever, painting or cutting vegetables or doing something completely mundane, like, I dunno, watching TV.

Having a hand for realism, I tried making some kind of composite of him, so, if I _did_know his name, I could certainly find my father.

I ended up with a drawing of a pair of almond-shaped eyes, a mop of dark hair, and a slightly triangular nose. At that moment, I had declared it was best I didn't know my father.

She said I was like him, though. It would slip out at the most random of times: "You draw kind of like him when you sketch like that." "That's what he would have said." "Yeah, your father hated running, too."

Every time, I'd stare at her, mouth gaping, and she'd turn away to hide tears, ashamed.

It was worse when I started singing at seven or eight.

I'd just sit there, hear a song, and start vocalizing it, and she'd look at me with this mask of shock. So I'd shut up.

About the sixth or seventh time she caught me, though, I caught her right back.

"I wanna play piano."

"What?"

"I. Wanna. Play. Piano."

A short six or seven months after I began piano, my mother finally introduced me to the guy she had been seeing for four months.

Reyna wanted me to call him Mr. Pollock. He wanted me to call him Charlie.

'If she calls you Reyna, can't she call me Charlie?" was his argument.

They married later that year. I was the overjoyed flowergirl at the ceremony.

I finally had a father.

I remember the flood of memories as I pack the framed pictures that sit on my desk and windowsill into a little cardboard box. They're a variety of things - pictures of Reyna and Charlie's wedding, various images of family and friends, and a selection of candid shots of me with various musicians.

What can I say? I'm a music nerd.

I slip all of them into a corner of the box in the stack: me with The Fray, The White Stripes, Sara Bareilles, Panic! At The Disco, My Chemical Romance, Lily Allen, The All-American Rejects, Florence Welch, Coldplay... The list went on.

I leave the box on the desk, cross the room, and approach the poster wall, aptly and... originally... named. I start in the corner, pulling off and rolling up a retro poster for The Black Cauldron and setting it on the black-and-red covers of my bed.

I turn to the rest of the room.

This was going to take a long time.

Instead of saying any last words before the soil goes down on her coffin, I start singing Amazing Grace.

The tears slide down my cheeks, but I don't care. I'm still belting out the notes in my loudest voice, my richest, yet most subtle vibrato, letting everyone hear my voice ring out.

"Amazing Grace," I repeat, "How sweet... The sound... That saved... A wretch... Like me... I once... Was lost... But now... I'm found... Was blind... But now... I see."

When I'm done, I step back. I turn to see Kaitlin wiping her big, caramel brown eyes, mouthing, "That was gorgeous."

I smile back, lip trembling.

The pastor dismisses us, but I stay, and watch them as they turn the dirt back in.

Jake, my best friend, puts a hand on my shoulder. "Indie, you coming?"

I smile. "Yeah, man. Just..."

He nods, pulls me into a brief hug, and jerks away. "See... See you, Indie."

He walks away, his mop of curly dirty-blonde hair bobbing under a black umbrella.

It's April 27th. A month or so after my sixteenth birthday, four days after my mother's death, about five years since Charlie died, and the first rain in Southern Colorado of the year. Precipitation stains the flagstone from orange-red to brown in seconds. I shift a little more under my umbrella, and watch as the last shovels of dirt cover her.

A few months after Reyna married, Charlie had an idea that we would go to every continent except Antarctica that following summer. So, I was freshly nine that year, and Charlie was planning a route: Denver, to LA, to Tokyo, to Sydney, to Johannesburg, to Frankfurt, to Barcelona, to Rio, to Santiago de Chile, to Belize City, to Miami, and back to Denver.

I was used to going to LA; we went there all the time for Reyna's art shows.

But nothing on God's Great Earth prepared me for the carnival of Tokyo.

I hadn't been alive for even ten years, when, all of a sudden, I was exposed to the world. I was seeing everything in this new light, with a naive curiosity that almost demanded me to experience everything. I had been freed to something completely different from my home. Colorado was gorgeous, but after a while, one finds dramatic, barren purple peaks to be monotonous, the chill of ice caps unappetizing, and sagebrush plains ugly.

I found myself living for the first time.

And by the time we had made it to Frankfurt, I was already seeing the world differently. I saw a road as a vein of blood in the body of a city, not just a way for people to pass through. I saw each slightly freakish item on a menu to be something curious and delicious - although, when we went to Thailand a year later, I strayed from scorpions. I no longer saw people as having features, but as _individuals_, mothers and fathers, daughters and sons, wives and husbands.

Charlie changed me into someone I wouldn't have recognized otherwise. I could never have thanked him more.

I catch up with Jake after a few minutes. He tucks me into a half-arm hug, and asks, "You okay?"

I shrug.

"Don't worry about it."

'I'm not worried, Jake. My mother died. I'm devastated."

He sucks a breath in. "You riding with Kaitlin, or...?"

"Can I ride with you?"

He nods.

When we get to the curb, his mom's maroon SUV is waiting. She gives me a worried glance, and as I climb into the car with Jake, she turns, and, in a careful, hushed voice, asks, "Indie, babe, how are you?"

"...Fine, Mrs. Wallace."

She gives me a raised eyebrow, before starting the car, and driving to where the after-thingy-whatever is.

I couldn't care.

I notice the absence of mass in the passenger seat. "Hey, Jake, where's your dad?"

He groans. "Stupid fucking business trip. He chose working in Vancouver over honoring your mom's death. Sick, isn't it?"

I nod, and stare out of the window, nearly crying.

Jake's mom tries for conversation several times, failing each attempt. None of us can talk. We're still taking in the shock of her death. I pull off my black flats, and tuck my feet into the skirt of my dress.

When we get there, I peel myself out of the car, slipping my flats back on, and walking around the side of the car to slide next to Jake. Sub-consciously, I slip my hand into his. Normally, one of us would be embarrassed and a little shocked, but now, no one really cares. He accepts, and squeezes my hand. We walk into Kaitlin's house in silence.

There's a low hum of chatter that echoes through the rooms, a sea of black that floats through like a dying river, like a dying pulse. Kaitlin stands in the middle, her shock of naturally scarlet hair being a beacon.

When I enter, she pulls me into a hug. "Baby, are you okay?"

I nod before burying my face into the crook between her neck and shoulder. "Kaitlin, what's gonna happen to me?"

"I dunno, baby. You're gonna have to go testify to a judge, I guess, unless Simon has already figured something out. If we testify, I guess I could come forward as a fit guardian, but..." She sighs, and pulls me away from her gently so she can look at me and wipe tears from my blue-green eyes. "I don't know anything."

When I was eleven, my life started diving.

Imagine a realitively tall man with cropped, light brown hair driving in a small car. Do not worry about the brand, model, or whatever of the car. It isn't relevant to this exercise. You are free to your imagination. I just want you to picture this man in a small, silver car. Small, but large enough to drive three around a state 280 miles wide.

Now, imagine a field with khaki brush everywhere. It is night; it is stormy; the sky is a wondrous, deep indigo, solid and rolling. Rain jumps from the sky, as if falling will save it, but it only makes it worse for all, whether the driver or the drop. The road is slick. Against the varying lights of an occasional stoplight, it shines Christmas colors despite it being late April.

Imagine the man at a light. It's red... Red... Red... Green.

As he goes, pause the picture.

Imagine a man driving a massive, sixteen-wheeled truck. He has a straggly, brown beard, and there's no cargo on the back of the truck, but has been going since five this morning to drop the damn truck off. His eyes start to droop, but he quickly rouses himself. He must stay up. He must stay awake... Awake... Awak...

Awa... Aw... A...

He sees the light ahead. It's blurry, but there it is. Green... Yellow... Red... Red... Red...

As he keeps on going, a flash of silver. He can't stop the brakes...

The car and truck spin. Swerve. Topple. Fire and smoke intermingles with the rain.

And two finite exhales commence.

Can you imagine that?

You just saw my stepfather's death.

The funeral was my first. I couldn't deal with the black, the sunlight contradicting the somber mood, the coffin with Charlie's battered body being lowered deeper, deeper, and still deeper. I hate remembering it.

Like I said: You are free to your imagination.

A solid month after his death, I came back from school to find Reyna packing everything in the kitchen into cardboard boxes.

"We're selling this house," She said, "To a lovely young couple expecting a child. I just bough a house down, close to Durango. We're leaving in a week."

At first, I was angry. Shocked. Scared. Later, I came to accept it.

We drove. Minutes, miles. Hours passed. We stopped to eat once. I stopped to puke twice. Once from carsickness, once from nerves.

Soon, we pulled into a dirt road, no longer than thirty feet, twenty minutes away from town and a stones throw away from a creek. The house was two stories, cream with flagstone-red trim, and a black roof. A door the same shade as the trim beckoned.

I pulled my backpack on my shoulder and walked in.

My resentment of my mother's lack of better judgement faded as soon as I stepped in. I was welcomed by a living room, a black couch set tentatively over a thin, honey rug, spread over cool, slate floors. A dark brown staircase led up the left side of the room, and underneath, I could see a second couch tucked underneath the stairs. To the right was a door the same dark, woodsy color of the staircase.

Reyna entered the house behind me. "Well, this is lovely." She turned behind me to the door on the right, entering what she revealed to be the master bedroom.

"Go upstairs," She said, "Check it out."

I jumped up the staircase, two steps at a time, until I reached a second floor. It was a balcony-like hall, only a few feet long, opening into a small kitchen with a circular table big enough for three, tons of windows, allowing golden sunlight to spill in, and three doors. I opened the first, and looked in. A full bathroom, with the same slate tiles as the ones on the first floor and silvery curtains, contrasting with the sun pouring in from a skylight. I shrugged, and closed it. The second: a small room, probably a bedroom.

The third, behind the table and next to the kitchen.

I peeked in, gasped, and immersed myself in the environment.

The walls of the massive room were a cool gray, the floor the consistent dark wood of the house, paired off nicely. Silver, studio track lights lined the ceiling. A balcony beckoned at the end of the room, the platinum rays luring me.

This was heaven.

Four years later, I'm packing the last of my stuff into cardboard boxes, swallowing tears. I kick a box open, fold the black, gray, and red bedsheets and curtains, and stuff them into the manila confines. I shut the box, and, with a Sharpie, mark: Indie - Curtains and Shit.

I look up when I hear rapping against the open door and a voice. "And Shit? Really?"

To appease the guest, I cross out 'Shit' and write 'Stuff' underneath. "Happy now?"

The man sits down on the stripped mattress. He has kept brown hair and honey eyes hidden behind sleek,

professional glasses. He looks down at the boxes. "It's sad, moving."

I nod, grabbing a black-stained white hoodie and slipping it on, rolling the sleeves to expose my forearms.

I love this thing: my Concert Hoodie.

It was once white, until, just before my first concert, The Fray, when I was eight, I took it, wrote the band name on the left bicep, and got them to sign their names next to it, as well as the date. Since, I had done that for every concert I had gone to.

The man raises an eyebrow. "How many bands have you seen?"

Simon Headley is another of the friends we made when we moved to Durango. He lives across the creek,

with his girlfriend Lilly-Ann. Simon is a lawyer, running a firm in town and professing in child law. After Charlie passed, he became my next father figure. He immediately saw me as something of a daughter, despite Lilly-Ann being five months pregnant when we met them.

They still aren't married, but they both agreed that they didn't need marriage. It was kind of romantic, in a weird, new-age kind of way.

After we became comfortable there, Lilly-Ann gave birth to a baby boy, Marcus. He's a sweet one.

I look at Simon with a sideways glance. "Something happen yet?"

"No. I haven't found any loopholes that would allow the Wallace's or Kaitlin be able to gain custody of you before you got into the system. And your godmother died in an airplane crash a few years ago, right?"

"Yeah, Amanda."

"Your grandparents are dead, and your aunt doesn't want you, nor does your uncle."

"Well, I am devil spawn, don't see why they'd want me."

"Nor have I found anything about your father, not that you would want to know him."

I nodded. "Spot on."

I'm bowing my head down so no one sees me and pats my back and gives me sympathy: "Oh, darling, it's a shame your mother left us." "You're Kaitlin, right? Her best friend? Oh, you're her daughter? Oh, I didn't know she was ever a mother! I'm so sorry." "It's terrible that you're now going to have to go through the system. Good luck."

I was dying to scream at them all and run out of the house crying. But my dignity kept me in place.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, but I look up, trusting instinct.

Simon.

"Can I talk to you in private? It's concerning your custody."

Kaitlin, our spunky, redheaded new neighbor, was having a glass of wine with Reyna when she got the call from Fiona Wallace.

"We're moving to Durango. We got the house the street over from you. The one across the creek."

I gasped. Reyna nearly dropped her glass.

"So... Jake's moving here?" I asked innocently.

She could only nod.

A week later, we saw a car pull into the driveway of the house next to Simon's.

I ran out of the house, forgot shoes, ran across dirt, a wooden bridge, and asphalt barefoot to the next street, and sprinted to the car, tackling a blonde boy in a deadly hug. He weakly returned the embrace, gasping for air.

His storm gray eyes twinkled with happiness. "We're neighbors now!"

That summer was spent entirely with Jake. We swam in the creek, we walked downtown and pigged out at the ice cream shop, we held movie marathons all night. It was like the old times, before Charlie's death. It was heaven; I had my best friend back.

It was short lived after Reyna started fainting, collapsing, just being weak, a mess.

I think you can create the story from there.

Simon pulls me into Kaitlin's office, sets his briefcase down on the desk, and presses his fingertips against the surface.

"We found someone."

I raise an eyebrow. "Who?"

He sucks in air, turns to look out of the window, and turns back to me with wild eyes. "Indie, your dad's not dead."

It takes a few seconds for that to settle in, but once it does, I'm shaking. The breath has been knocked out of me. All I can do is stare at Simon incredulously. "What?"

He nods. "I don't know if your mother ever said that he was dead or not, if she never mentioned him in front of you, but he's not dead. Not in the least. He knows of you now, he was at the funeral, and he might be downstairs-"

"Simon!" I yell, cutting into his jumble of words.

He freezes up. I turn, and jump into Kaitlin's office chair, curling my knees into my chest. I spin the chair, and the office revolves around me.

"Simon, you just told me that my father is not dead. Then, you tell me that he's in this house with me. The father that hasn't been there for sixteen years-"

"Because he didn't know you existed until two weeks ago."

I stop the chair from spinning, and turn to look at Simon. "And what are you suggesting? That I'm going to live with this mystery father of mine? I don't know anything about him! All I know about him is that he studied comic art, and had dark hair!"

"Indie, calm down."

"Why should I calm down?"

"Because I would like you to know who he is."

It shuts me up immediately.

"Do you want me to give you a name?"

"No."

"What do you want?"

"Nothing. I want nothing to do with him."

"He knew nothing about you-"

"But if he loved my mother, he would have followed her to LA. He would have found out she was pregnant with her. He would have married her! He would have lived with her! With me! If he didn't love my mother, he would never-"

"And how do you know this?"

"Know what?"

"That that's what he would have done. You and your mother aren't the victim, Independence. He is. Your mother broke up with him. She never told him where she went. He would have been heartbroken, devastated. He would have searched all over, found nothing, and would have given up. He would have thought she was dead. And now she is."

I sigh. "Simon Headley, you are one manipulative bastard."

He smiles. "I'm a lawyer."

I lean forward. "Let's start with a basic physical description. What does he look like?"

He opens the briefcase that he set on the desk, and pulls out some files. "Um... Let's see... Dark hair, hazel eyes, five-foot-nine... You really do have his nose." My fingers wander up to said body part as Simon continues. "Thirty-five years old-"

"God."

"Your mother was thirty-five too, Indie. Ooh... He's married. With a kid."

"Wonderful! Bring on the bitchy stepmothers and snooty half-sisters."

"His kid will be turning three next month."

My lips form a ring. "Oh."

"Yeah. He makes a lot of money... He's a musician. And artist."

"Musician?" My jaw drops.

"Yeah. He's a singer. In a band. Is something wrong...?"

Yes, Simon. Everything is wrong.


	2. Chapter 2: Counting Down The Days To Go

**A/N: Welcome back, Lovers, Revengers, Paraders, and Killjoys alike! Here I am, back with chapter two of this story. I actually hope that you people are enjoying it. Tell me if you do by reviewing, pretteh please? Reviews, to me, are at the same status as chocolate, and music. Both of which are very important to my survival. **

**Shameless advertising, for the hell of flaunting my lack of shame: check out my other stories! I have also penned The Technicolor Rebellion, a Killjoy story, and Welcome... To Hell!, loosely based of the music video of Gives You Hell (because you can't dislike that vid). Check out Moonray's story, too! It's Don't Wanna Dance, and it's great. And I'll get her to upload more chappies to that soon. Yar.**

**Don't be afraid to keep on living.**

**~Sunshine**

After my mother's cancer had come for the second time, Jake and I were sitting in my room once, contemplating what would happen should my mother die.

"You could live with us," Jake had offered, "Or maybe with Kaitlin. Or Simon. Either way, you have to stay within the neighborhood."

"I know." I get up, and approach the black upright piano in my room, sitting at it, and removing the cover. Jake grabs the stool in the corner, reaches for the guitar he propped against the wall, and sets it on his lap, and turns to look at me. My fingertips rest upon the keyboard.

"What about your dad?"

I look to the side, meeting his eyes. "What about my dad?"

"Well, if he found you..."

"Jake, I'm thirteen. If he hasn't found me by now, then he's never going to find me."

He shrugs. "You never know."

"Whatev's. How 'bout your dad?"

Jake scoffs, raising an eyebrow. "Toronto, I think, this time. Next, it's DC. Then, New York. After that, London, then Paris, then, who the hell knows? He's gonna be gone for the next three months. It's a miracle that my parents haven't divorced yet."

"Don't wish for it. You're lucky to have married parents."

"Yeah, I know, but..."

I silence him with the ringing notes of My Immortal. He shuts up and plays along.

* * *

I gasp.

"Indie, is something wrong?" Simon asks again.

"Simon, let me see the picture."

Shocked, he fumbles as he passes me the papers in a hurry.

I turn it over, so it faces away from me, and inhale deeply.

It isn't him.

I steel myself for the shock.

It isn't him, it isn't him.

I'm hesitating, and I can feel it.

It isn't him it isn't him it isn't him it isn't him-

Too late.

I stare back at a too familiar face.

The sounds of a dying animal escape from my throat.

"Indie. Indie, are you okay-"

"No, Simon! No, not at all! How would you think that I was okay? I'm not o-fucking-kay!" Immediately, I'm clamping my hand over my mouth.

God, I am too much like him! Shit!

"So, you do know who your father is?"

The breath is sucked out of my lungs. I look away from the photo. "I met him. I hugged him. His signature resides on my Concert Hoodie! How can I live knowing that he's my father? I can't, Simon!" I choke on tears, trying to keep them down. "How did you find out?"

"Well, first, I checked your mother's e-mail. She had been communicating with him for two weeks before her death. And also... Your mother faked a birth certificate for you."

My blood runs cold.

"What?"

"Your mother faked a birth certificate. Your mother was an artist, Indie. She knew how to make things, how to copy things. She forged a birth certificate. I'm impressed. She used the exact same type of paper and inks for it. But she kept the original in her safe. The one with your father's name on it. So, I did some research, and the internet exploded as soon as I pressed enter. Face it, kid." He sighs. "Your father is a rock star."

It takes some more moments.

I'm surprisingly calm.

"And he's in the house right now."

"Yes."

"I'm not going back down. Not till everyone's gone. Including him."

"Independence, he's dying to meet you-"

"If he was dying to meet me, he would have said hi at the funeral."

"Well, put yourself in his shoes. You are a thirty-something minor celebrity with a wife and kid, and you just found out that the girlfriend who left you in college had your child. Now, she's dead, and the kid is in her mid teens. I would be scared, wouldn't you?"

I'm wordless. Simon reaches over the desk, pats my shoulder, and says, "I'm leaving you in here. Feel free to look through the files. Come down when you want. No jumping out the window, no sneaking into the bathroom to slit your wrists. No death. Just reading."

And, like that, Simon leaves me.

I take five, ten, fifteen minutes of staring out of the window, trying to listen to the chatter die. I give up, and start leafing through the papers.

Extensive background checks. Photos. Shit of the like.

I come across a fading, forgotten photo of two people, and I pick it up, blowing on it to rid the dust.

The person on the left is a younger version of my mother, maybe a few months, maybe a year before she got pregnant with me. Her blonde hair is shoulder length, with a few braids woven into them. Sunglasses are perched atop her head. She wears a ripped, black tee, red pants, and a gray vest with several pockets and tears. Her grin is wild, and her aquamarine eyes sparkle.

The man next to her is the man who I know to be my father. He has lengthening dark hair, is dressed in all black, complete with leather jacket. An arm is circled around my mother's waist, and he grins equally.

My mother had this, and never showed it to me. A side of my mother I had never seen before is starting to show through.

I put the photo back, and continue rifling through.

Another item I find is the birth certificate. The real one.

It has everything from the one I was familiar with for so long, the one my mother always used for me, except my surname had been cut to something so simple, and the space that I was so used to existing was filled in.

I couldn't take it anymore.

* * *

What is maybe forty-five minutes later, someone knocks on the door.

"Hey, Indie, it's Jake. Can I come in?"

"Door's open," I weep.

Jake opens the door, and I hear him walk in. "Indie, everyone's gone. What happened... Oh, what's this?"

"My birth certificate," is what I mumble.

I hear his footsteps as he crosses the room, stops in front of the desk, and pick it up. "Hey, you were born

at five twelve in the afternoon. In... Holy shit."

"What?"

"Your father. This has to be fake-"

"No."

I hear him drop it, and circle the desk to the office chair I'm in, and pull me into a hug. I bury my face in the crook between his shoulder and neck.

"You have a father."

"I don't want to."

"He's a freaking musician."

"And?" I pull away from Jake's hug. "I want him to be an idol. I want him to be a model. I don't want him to be my fucking father! That's the fangirl dream, but not mine!" I break down again, falling to the floor, bringing Jake with me.

I sit there, crying into my best friend's shoulder for what may be ages.

I finally pull away, and Jake wipes a few tears from my eyes with his thumb. He smiles.

"What?"

"You really do look like him."

I glare.

"It's true. Don't ignore it. Don't deny it. It isn't that bad, I guess."

"Says the normal suburban kid."

We sit in silence.

"So, it's no longer Melbourne, is it? It's Independence Veronica-"

"Way."

I meet his eyes.

"Independence Veronica Way."

* * *

I glide away from the piano, onto my bed, and continue staring at Simon's gatherings.

Why had he left them with me?

Why had I _taken _them _with_ me?

I turn my head to look at myself in the mirror, brushing a few overlong dark strands from my face. I need a haircut soon.

I'm trying to muster up some courage.

Well...

Courage is stupidity, right?

And I certainly am not the smartest kid around.

While a knot of nerves builds itself in my stomach, I open the files for another peek.

I start finding more of those pictures from college, more 'extensive background checks' that really only required a search on Google, and other things. Papers. Photos. Stark, ivory sheets all grouped into manila folder after manila folder.

My fingers stop sliding through the papers as I come to... printouts?

I'm sorry I never found you sooner.

My eyes widen. What?

I continue reading.

Words cannot address how regretful I am for not emailing you before now, but this is urgent. I have never been more desperate in my life.

I am dying. Ironically, I developed cancer. Ovarian, specifically. This is my third time having it, and I have approximately nineteen days to live, and to say goodbye. This is both a greeting and that goodbye to you (that the idiots called doctors recommended me to say), but this is not the only reason I am emailing.

In case you never found out, I had a daughter.

Your daughter.

Her name is Independence Veronica. She's sixteen years old. I found out I was pregnant with her shortly after I transferred (by the way, I went to California). We are now living in southern Colorado, but we've lived in this gorgeous state for her whole life. Long story behind that, believe me.

But I need you to come to my funeral. I need you to meet Indie. I'm transferring her custody rights to you, if you will accept and raise her.

Remember, just for two years. Just until she can live on her own.

Sincerely,

Reyna Melbourne, your college girlfriend

She had talked to him. Emailed him. Without me knowing. After almost seventeen years of never talking to him. So discreetly, yet so... Indifferent.

I flip the page.

Reyna. It's you.

No shit, Sherlock.

Why did you never tell me you were going to California?

Why did you never tell me you had cancer?

Why did you never tell me that we had a daughter?

I hope you understand that I am in deep and utter shock. You never responded to anything of mine, so I had eventually led myself to believe you were dead. Even in these, as you put it, desperate, times, I am glad to know that you are alive.

I am more than happy to raise Indie. Now knowing she exists, I am actually very thankful and deeply honored that you specifically found me to care for her.

I stop reading.

Deeply honored? I was not some kind of trophy, some art project.

But, fuck.

She was communicating with him?

Mega fuck.

And he sounded so formal.

Nothing like the _ass_ I knew he was.

* * *

"I'm not going down."

Jake sighs, rolling his gray orbs. "Indie, I realize that you know who he is now, and it's still a little of a shock, but you're gonna have to suck it up, take it like the stubborn bitch you are, and fight to keep your head above the water."

I bite my lip. "You don't get it, Jake. I'm moving. All the shit that's still mine will be going to Cali with me, unless we can still manipulate the system-"

"Indie, he has custody of you. There is no manipulating the system."

"Jake, if I go, this is the last time I live in this house. It could be the last time I'll see you for a while."

"We'll be in touch."

"All this, or most of it, is going on a van. To L.A. I'm leaving tonight. Jake... I don't want to go." I step closer, wrap my arms around his neck, and bury my face into his shoulder.

"Indie, I don't want you to go, either. But shit happens, and you can't fight it forever." He pushes me away so he can look at me in the eye. "But it is kind of cool, that your father happens to be-"

"Don't say his name."

He raises his eyebrow. "Wow, you really hate him, don't you?"

"He was never there."

"For the last time, Indie! He never knew you existed."

"He could have looked for my mother harder."

"Jesus, do you expect the best from everyone? We're human. We make mistakes. And his mistake was... Not finding you soon enough."

He was about to say _fathering you_. I could feel it.

The doorbell resonates through the house.

"I'm not getting it," I comment.

Jake sighs, and pound his feet out the door. I hear him go downstairs, and the door open.

"Hello! You must be Indie's dad," is heard. I roll my eyes. Jacob Benjamin Wallace: the hopeless professional.

I drown out of the conversation until I hear, "Yeah, she's devastated. Reyna's death took a major toll on her. She's been wallowing up in her room. Let me go get her." I hear the percussion of Jake going up the stairs two at a time, and the door slams open.

"Independence, get your arrogant ass out of this goddamn prison cell right now."

"No."

"Indie, I will drag you out here, flailing and screaming, if that is what it takes."

"Why? So keen about getting rid of me?"

He sighs. "The man downstairs cares about you enough to be willing to drop everything to come help you. To raise you. He certainly cares for you. Who knows? He could love you, Indie. You just don't know that yet."

I purse my lips, before reaching out a hand to Jake. He takes it, and leads me out of the room.

I'm not prepared for what I see next.

He stands in the empty house, staring at the grains in the wood, the bevels of the slate, the texture of the wall, every goddamn medium in the house. He runs a hand through his hair, and twists his neck side to side. So normal.

I just manage to hide behind Jake before he clears his throat, and the stranger turns, resting his eyes on Jake, then his shoulder, then me. And he smiles.

He's dressed in a gray shirt with black skinnies, black sunglasses perched on his face. Despite his eyes being hidden, his whole face seems to light up as he catches sight of my tangled, dark mane.

"I take it you're Indie?"

Jake twists, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me forward. "Yeah, this is her. Independence Veronica, born March 21st, 1996, some sterile, bleach hospital in the lovely shithole that is Colorado. Isn't she gorgeous?"

"Shut up, Jake," I warn. I yelp as I get dragged farther down the stairs.

"So, now that you have custody of her, you two better start getting along before I go berserk on your asses." With that final comment, he pushes me in front of this man:

In front of my father.

He looks at me, and I can feel his eyes boring right through the lenses of his sunglasses, burning into me.

I stare at him with... contempt? Disdain?

He only responds with a sad smile.

He removes the sunglasses, revealing swirling hazel eyes, sparkling with nerves.

"Hi, I'm Gerard."

* * *

So far, we both have dark hair, weirdass noses, the ability to draw, an affinity for Queen, and several pairs of skinny jeans.

And that's when the similarities begin to dwindle.

I realize that I'm far more like my mother than this being in front of me that I happen to share DNA with.

See? This is what anger does to you. It convinces you that one of your heroes and inspirations is a total monster.

And now, I have to shove a couple suitcases into the back of _his_ rental car while the rest of _my_stuff gets shoved into the arms of Kaitlin. She smiles as she struggles under the weight, kissing my forehead.

"Don't worry, babe, just send me your new address and all this crap will be at your doorstep!" She says, a little _too_ cheerily. She meets eyes with Him - no, I'm not going to say his name! - and smiles, finding a way to extend a hand to shake. "Kaitlin. I was Reyna's neighbor."

"Gerard."

"So... You're her dad? Because you two almost have the same eyes!"

No, woman, I thought it was the nose.

I see Jake and his mom press themselves into my line of vision, and mutter a chorus of 'Oh, yeahs' and I can feel the blush creeping up my neck like ivy.

I self-sonsciously pull the hems of my cutoffs a little farther down my legs as Simon, Lilly-Ann, and Marcus adjoin with the rest of us. Simon pushes his glasses up his nose a little farther, and Marcus tugs on his mother's arm a little. She leans over, and he says something. Lilly-Ann responds by shaking her head.

As soon as they spot me, Marcus breaks from his parents, runs to me, and wraps his arms around my waist.

"...Marcus?"

He looks up, honey-brown eyes blinking under dark lashes. "Is it true you're leavin'?"

"...Yeah, Marcus," I mutter, hugging him back, "It's true."

"Come back, Indie. Please come back. You're like a big sister to me."

I smile, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. "Of course I'm coming back. Did you think I was leaving forever?"

"Kinda..."

'Well, I'm not. So don't worry. I'll come back as soon as possible. In the meantime, annoy Jake for me."

"Okay."

He pulls away from me. I lean towards Lilly-Ann, and crush her in a hug.

"Baby, we'll miss you. Tell me when you're coming back, and I _swear_, I will make you the biggest-ass pan of brownies you have ever seen."

I chuckle. "Thanks, Lilly-Ann."

She pulls away, and wipes tears from her deep brown eyes.

I look onward to Jake's mom.

"Mrs. Wallace-"

"Please, it's Fiona."

I nod. "Fiona..." I cross to her and hug her. "Thank you. For being there when my mom wasn't. Say hi to your husband for me."

"I... I will. Indie, we all love you so much. Please-"

"I'll be back."

She nods, stepping back.

I finally look at Jake. We stare at each other for a few seconds, before enveloping each other in a bone-crushing hug.

"I'm gonna miss you," I say.

"We'll keep in touch."

"You're gonna have to come out to California."

"You're gonna have to come back to Colorado."

We pull away from each other, smile, and then fully break out of the hug. I find a tear slinking down my eye.

"I guess... This is... Goodbye."

Jake playfully hits my shoulder. "Get going. You're never gonna leave."


	3. Chapter 3: The Hardest Part Of This

**A/N: Oh, God, please don't kill me.**

**I will like to apologize for the fact that I didn't post last week. I have good reasons, I swear! For one, my mother's best friend just started her business, so we were constantly visiting her. And second, my brother's taking an online health class so he doesn't have to take it during the year. He should have gotten it done, right? Wrong. Instead, my brother was teaching snotty little six year olds how to tie knots and hike without attracting bears for three weeks. So, since we share a computer, he has left no mercy for me and has been using it dawn to dusk for two straight weeks to finish his classes. That ass.**

**So, I just managed to finish this chapter - just - but Rebellion might have to wait a couple days. Sorry, my little Killjoys! Also, I'm gonna start posting this story every two weeks instead. Why? The chapters for this story are a good deal longer than the chapters of my other stories, so that should be a decent explanation.**

**As for Welcome To Hell, it might be returning to constant updates this next week! Woo-hoo!**

**Also, I just finished watching the full series of Avatar: The Last Airbender. BEST. SHOW. EVAAAR! Go watch!**

**Alrigh', luv ya all!**

**~Sunshine**

My legs and arms are crossed. The radio is blasting. I'm staring out the side window and I refuse to look at this guy.

I can feel his eyes wavering on me every so often. An aura of suppressed nerves sparks around him. Once, we cross eyes, and immediately, I'm turning away.

Finally, he turns to look at me. We're on an empty, straight road anyway.

"What is your problem with me?"

I stare back at him incredulously, still not moving myself from the 'facing away' position. "Excuse me?"

"I asked: What. Is. Your. Problem. With. Me?"

I roll my eyes. "I dunno, you weren't _there_ for sixteen years of my life? You never bothered trying to find my mother? You moved on?"

"You want an answer? I didn't know you existed. Your mother had erased her tracks. It was impossible to find her! And your mother moved on faster than I did; now does _that_ answer everything?"

"Um... No-"

"What else do you want?" I hear his voice shaking. "Goddammit, Indie. I'm _trying._ I'm trying to at least get you to tolerate me! To at least treat me like I'm even something resembling a human being! What more do you expect?"

I'm staring in shock, jaw slack.

Under his sunglasses, I see a droplet slide down his cheek.

Holy shit, he's _crying._

_I made him cry._

I feel terrible.

"Um... Are you..."

He swallows. "I'm fine."

I bite my lip.

"So what happens now?"

"We get back to the airport at nine fifteen tonight. Our flight leaves at eleven. We get to LA at eleven thirty there... That's past midnight for you. Then, Lindsey's picking us up, and from there... I'm not sure."

My hearing perks at the mentioning of the name _Lindsey._

I forgot about having a stepmom.

Wait... And a half sister.

I am in deep shit.

* * *

When we finally get to customs, I can feel TSA staring at me. Guess they don't like dark haired girls with lots of jewelry and eyeliner.

I hand my passport off to a guard, a rounded man with soft blonde hairs mixed with a sheen of sweat covering his head. Thick glasses remain perched on his nose, and as he tilts his head down to look at my passport, his double chin becomes more pronounced. He looks up at me, and down at the picture, repeats this motion a few times, stamps the boarding pass that is tucked into the small book, and hands both to me. He does the same with Gerard's passport, before saying, "Have a great flight," scowling lightly at us both.

I smirk in response.

We walk in silence into a line for security screening. I grasp the corner of a plastic box, slide my shoes off, and let my jewelry join it. I set my backpack on the table, grab another box, retrieve a computer, charger, and iPod from it, and set them in another box, before sliding everything into the screening box and joining the line for the full-boy scan.

"Ma'am, you next," another TSA guard says. I walk into the scanner, place my feet on the yellow footprint-traces, and set my arms above my head. With a familiar _whip _sound, the scanner passes. I step out, and wait on the side of the screening machine until my belongings peek out of the box.

I'm slipping my sandals back on when Gerard approaches, tapping my shoulder with two fingers. "Ready?"

I nod. "Yeah."

This experience is odd.

As I turn to look at the man next to me, a thousand thoughts plague my mind.

He's an idol.

He's a role model.

He's a singer.

He's an artist.

He's my father.

That last phrase doesn't fit at all with the others. No. It's not possible at all. Gerard Way is everything but that. He can't be my father. Not at all.

Why did you fall for this guy, Reyna?

He checks the tickets. "We're at A - 23."

_"This is Denver International Airport, and we would like to tell all passengers leaving on the Southwest flight at eleven tonight to LA that your gate has been moved from A - 23 to A - 49. Thanks!"_

Despite being a thirty-five year old man and _supposedly _responsible, he groans. "A - 49?"

I sigh. "If you move your ass, it isn't too far." I start walking through the gate, and past the Panda Express, in search. "You coming?"

I continue walking, only looking straight, but Gerard's footsteps behind me seem to ring out in the crowded airport.

Tip-Tap. Tip-Tap. Tip-Tap.

Ten minutes of this silent and tense walking, and we finally find the gate. I immediately plop myself into a seat, dig through my backpack for my iPod and earbuds, and slip the minuscule speakers in, before turning the iPod on and flipping through my music.

Let's see...

The familiar, sorely rugged cover of _Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge _stares at me.

Fucking Hell.

That's what was playing when I shuffled my music last night? I wasn't even listening well. I had curled myself up in a ball and had fallen asleep with my music crooning into my ears.

I search through artists, until I decide that The Black Keys will be healthy. The familiar buzz of 'Gold On The Ceiling' vibrates through my skull. Satisfied, I rummage through the fraying, black backpack until I produce a large, blue notebook, pencil, and block eraser. I flip to an empty page, and let my pencil flicker over the surface of the paper a little before it starts flowing.

Here come the assassins

Here go my bodyguards

There's the white flag

That's my call to arms

That's alright that's okay

They're not gonna get me alive

Bang those unholy drums

I feel a heartbeat again

Not sure if it was ever mine

My life's already spent

Hide the guns in the basement

Even I won't find them there

I guess you could keep one for me

But that's only if you cared

That's alright that's okay

They're not gonna get me alive

I feel a presence inching next to me.

"What?" I cry, indignant.

Gerard clears his throat, and moves away. "I wanted to see what you were writing." He raises an eyebrow. "Poetry or lyrics?"

"Lyrics are poetry."

He smirks. "Touche."

As the final resounding note of the song fades off, I remove an earbud. "What are you trying to accomplish with this?"

He shrugs, crossing his legs and placing a large, lightly tanned hand on it. "I'm only trying to know my own daughter."

The familiar twang of guilt pulses though me, wrenching my gut.

I mimic his position, taking both earbuds out and pausing the beginning of 'Lonely Boy'. "Alright, what do you want to know?"

He sighs. "Where have you even lived, for fuck's sake?"

I shrug. "Until I was eleven, I lived in Louisville. It's a town about forty five minutes away from Denver. I loved it. But, after Charlie died, Reyna and I moved to Durango. That's where we were today."

He nods. "Who was Charlie?"

"My stepdad."

"If you don't mind me asking-"

"How he died?" I let out a forlorn chuckle. "He was... Killed in a car crash."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks." I clear my throat. "Next question?"

"Basic things, like... Um... Favorite color?"

I shrug. "Too many. I like colors too much to pick one."

"Favorite band?"

"...Too many, again." Normally, I would have said something else, but since Reyna died, I haven't been really telling the truth. I haven't known what's truth.

But he nods, accepting my answer. "Um... Favorite... Movie?"

I let the corners of my mouth tilt upwards a little. "Alice In Wonderland. The Tim Burton version, the Disney one's just creepy." I sigh. "Screw it, anything Tim Burton."

He nods again, this time in approval. "And... I guess... Favorite food?"

"Avocado rolls, goddammit."

He chuckles a little, a grin coming on. "Hm... Do you play anything?"

"Piano. I sing a little. Never in front of anyone but Reyna and Jake, so don't expect anything."

"You sang at the funeral."

I stiffen. "I did." I cross my arms. "What's your point?"

"Why then?"

I shrug, sighing shakily. "I dunno."

I'm saved from elaborating when the flight attendant starts calling for passengers to get into their boarding groups. We stand in another bout of silence and make our way to one of Southwest's odd boarding columns.

I've never understood the idea behind their boarding systems.

* * *

Several awkward silences, even more conversations of the same status, and a can of ginger ale later, we touch down at LAX.

"I hate this airport," I mutter.

Gerard raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

I grimace. "I was on a trip with my mother when I was twelve, and the TSA here patted me down."

Suddenly, his whole face lights up. He leans towards me, resting his forearms on his crossed legs, and turns to face me, grinning. "What happened?"

I feel the corner of my mouth curve. "Should I tell you?" He nods. "So, my mother and I went to L.A. for an art show about three and a half years ago. So, on the way back, I had put my hair back with, of all things, a purple bandanna." I cover my mouth for a second to suppress a giggle. "The TSA must of thought I was in some gang. And then, I was also wearing these pants that had, like, detachable legs so they could become shorts. So I had put the detachable part in the pockets of my pants, so the pockets were, y'know, filled. So the TSA asked what was in them, and I said, "my pants," so they thought I was completely crazy, of course. So they brought me to the side and started patting me down. So then, Reyna was trying to tell them, "she's my daughter, and yes, her pants are in her pockets," so then they started patting her down." I inhale quickly. "So then, they set a dog on us to sniff us out, but they found nothing, so they let us go to our gate."

I breathe in a few times before I start giggling uncontrollably.

His eyebrows raise. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

The plane stops at the gate; the 'fasten seatbelts' sign turns off, and the familiar rush of passengers standing, grabbing bags, and hurrying to get off the plane is suddenly apparent. Gerard and I still sit, wait for people to hurry up.

He turns to me. "So."

I raise an eyebrow. "So?"

He clears his throat. "Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Thirsty?"

"Not really."

"Tired?"

"Actually, no."

He nods. "And, I'm also gonna tell you know... You're room is pretty... Bare bones, so to speak, right now. We wanted you to be able to decorate it."

I nod back. "Thanks. I've slept in weird paces plenty of times. It should be of no worry to me."

He nods more.

So, we both nod a lot. Funny.

I look up; the hall has began to clear. I grab my backpack, and begin to stand, Gerard following suit.

We walk off the plane.

* * *

After grabbing two suitcases from the claim, we're heading out and into the pickup area. The humidity and heat, despite it being nearly midnight now, is shocking, and I can already feel the sheen of moisture forming on my forehead, cheekbones, and upper lip. California - I've never really liked it.

"So, what now?"

"Well, Lindsey's supposed to pick us up around now, but..." His voice dies as he sees something. I follow his line of eyesight to a dark blue car - it looks like some kind of crossover - driving into the curb. It stops.

A woman steps out.

From the back, she's average height, has medium length dark hair, and is skinny, but feminine looking. She wears black skinny jeans and a red tank, a loose, white vest pulled over that.

She turns to look at the man next to me, and her dark eyes widen with delight.

With love.

Something I hadn't seen in Reyna's eyes for eight years, and then only had for three.

As the intimate moment plays out in front of me, I can't help myself but to turn away, toy with the zippers on my bag. pretending that I'm checking to see if everything's in place.

Well, after that one time in Athens, I couldn't be sure about having everything remaining in my bag.

"And you must be Indie."

My shoulders tense.

I don't wanna turn around.

A sigh. "You don't have to be scared, hon, I'm not gonna bite.

"I know." I close my eyes.

When I open them, she's standing in front of me.

"Hi, I'm Lindsey."

I look up at her.

Why?

Why does she... Care? About me? Does she, even?

Should I trust her?

Fuck it.

"Hi." I cough. "I-I-I'm Independence."

* * *

I didn't even remember falling asleep. I do, however, remember waking up.

I find myself in a surprisingly soft bed, with thin sheets. I'm still in what I was wearing yesterday - fading dark wash cutoffs, loose gray t-shirt, even the tattered wristbands I had on. The black gladiator sandals I was wearing yesterday are strewn about the room. I prop myself up on one elbow, and look around. The walls are a cream color, the floor covered in red tiles. Windows look out to a small yard, with... Oh, my God, there's a weeping willow.

I stretch my legs, twist, and sit up, leaning on my palms for a few seconds, allowing myself to be blinded by a pure rush of blood to the head, before getting up and opening my suitcase. I pull out a pair of gray cargo shorts and a black tee, and find my highlighter-yellow belt, before laying the garments on the bed. I paw through the contents a little more, before removing a fuchsia bra with silver glitter splattered over it. I shimmy out of my cutoffs and shirt, fold them, and throw them into the bag, snatch the cargos, and slide my legs into them.

I realize that I forgot that I've already taken my shirt off until now, and, upon finding myself shirtless, find that someone could come in. I quickly take off the lime green bra I'm wearing right now, and speedily slide the fuchsia one on.

As I straighten one of the straps, the door bangs open.

I meet eyes with a small child, about two feet tall, before I react appropriately, cross my arms over my chest, and let loose my loudest scream.

The little being starts laughing, horrendously high-pitched peals that spike fear in me.

"Oh, my God, Bandit, get back here!" A woman's voice yells, scooping the child up. "Indie, I'm so sorry about that."

Lindsey and I meet eyes for about three seconds before she appropriately slams the door shut.

Oh, God.

A lovely first impression of my half sister.

And on top of that - I've barely known my stepmother for _seven hours_ and she had to see me in my _glittery. Fuchsia. Bra._

Fuck my life.

I unfold the tee, and notice that it's my Paramore shirt - I still put it on. Lemme rub another band into the face of my own... No, he's not my father.

Just the guy I share DNA with.

I hook the belt around my hips, decide not to put on shoes, and stomp out of the room, sighing loudly.

I find myself attracted to an off-white-painted room with wide arches, terra cotta tiles, and ceramic bowls hung off the walls, where the sound of oil popping hauls me in. A kitchen is central to the area, black granite with deep brown cabinets, a glittering, silver fridge, a massive stove where eggs are fried sunny side up in a pan.

_He_ looks up from his coffee. "Good morning, Indie."

I nod, scowling a little. "Good morning, Gerard."

We lock eyes; for the five seconds, he softens his glare, while I harden mine.

"You two are pathetic."

We break away to stare at the woman leaning over the pan. "Wuh?"

"Honestly, if you two are going to have a little Mexican standoff, do it somewhere else. Or for God's sake, get used to each other. Before we all get killed."

Yeah, that's gonna happen.

"Whatev'."

Lindsey sighs. "By the way, Indie, I'm sorry about what happened with Bandit."

"Oh no, it's fine. I just don't want it happening again, for my own sake."

"Oh, yeah, don't worry-"

"Heeheehee!"

I tense up.

Not again.

The two-foot girl runs into the room, laughing. Now that I'm not in the midst of keeping my dignity, I can observe my new sibling a little closer. She's got soft, fine, dark hair, that fingers down onto her scalp from a massive cowlick at the corner of her skull. Honey eyes sparkle with excitement, hidden a little by chipmunk-ish cheeks. She wears a frilly, blue skirt with a white shirt depicting a cartooned fairy. She continues laughing, but as she looks at me more, she stops.

"Who are ya?" She asks.

"Um... I'm..."

"Who are ya?"

"Well, Bandit-"

"That's me."

I sigh impatiently. "Yes, Bandit, that is you."

"Uh-huh."

"But I'm-"

"You who?"

"I'm... Indie."

"You Indie."

"Yes, Bandit, that's me."

"Why're ya here?"

I hear someone stand, and a presence slips behind me to pick the little girl up.

_Gerard and his little girl are precious together._

"Lady B, this is... This is your sister."

She gasps. "A big sis?"

I huff. "Your big sis."

The toddler's eyes widen with delight, and a smile splits her face. "I have a big sissy?" I point to myself, and she squeals, and starts bouncing up and down in her father's arms. "I have a big sissy! I have a big sissy!"

The minute she starts making grabby hands at me, Gerard plops the child in my arms. "She's yours now. You're off to a good start. She likes you."

"Nngh. Yeah. No kidding."

Bandit curls her chubby arms around my neck and buries her face into my shoulder. "Ya smell good."

Despite the pure fright in the situation, I find myself laughing. "I guess I do."

"Like Mommy's flow'rs."

Out of the corner of my eye, Lindsey looks up and smiles. I smirk back. "Hey, is it okay if I wander around the house a little?"

"Yeah."

I put Bandit down, much to her disdain, and skid out of the kitchen, into the entryway. It's a small, yet wide corridor, with an arch separating it from the kitchen, windows set on both sides, coat and hat racks fashioned from aged, dark wood arranged in the corners, and massive double doors of the same material with black, iron-cast handles. When my gaze lingers to one of the coat racks, I notice several leather jackets, a couple of heavy, but streamlined coats, a tiny, rose knit sweater, and various hats hung upon it.

My mind flashes back to the antique, Victorian-style coat rack Reyna had next to the door, draped with long trenches, hoodies of every kind, a couple of vests, and stylish jackets, fedoras, berets, a couple top hats ("For the hell of it," Reyna told me), and even a purple homburg with a massive bow on the side. It was crazy and artistic. This is... Too family-oriented. Even the leather jackets give it that air.

I pass through the kitchen once more, walk through a sitting area with deep brown leather couches, and find a door, this one a paler wood that matches the floor, which I pull, and close behind me.

This room... A few small windows pepper the walls, letting slivers of gold creep through, but a couple of skylights flash aureate light into the space. It illuminates a hazelnut paneled piano, set against the wall, as well as a guitar and bass perched on stands in the corner. On the other side of the room are a couple of easels, aligned on their respective stands, and a small table bearing pencils, erasers, pens, watercolors and oils, and paintbrushes of every kind. A jar sits in the middle of it, dripping with stains of dried pigment.

This room is awesome.

I pull the bench out from under the piano, sit on it, press my right foot to the pedal, and let my fingers float over the keys, the nails clanking against the alabaster and onyx keys.

I glide my hands to the top two octaves of the keyboard, and let my fingertips press into the keys, tapping out a delicate melody. Soon, I find my hands spreading out, my arms dividing themselves to opposite ends of the instrument, pounding out similar licks...

I hear the door creak, but I continue playing.

When the piece finally finishes in a minor key, lullabyish ending, a childish voice speaks up.

"Wow, yous better dan Mommy."

I turn to the three year old. "Um... Thanks?"

She spins around, runs out of the room, and starts screaming, "Mommy, Mommy! Big Sis is better dan ya!"

I sigh, curling away from the piano, and slink back to the kitchen with a metaphorical tail between my legs.

"Was that you playing?" I hear Gerard ask.

I nod solemnly, stalking under another arch, pulling my choppy, black side bangs over my eyes.

I make it back to my room (how odd, _my_ room), zip open my backpack, and take my computer out, plugging the charger into the wall and turning it on. The screen flashes, and a loading sign enters. I sit on the edge of the bed, and set the laptop on my knees.

I practically _jump_ when I hear a knock on the door.

"Indie? Can I come in? It's Lindsey."

"Oh, yeah, sure. C'mon in."

The dark haired woman enters. "Oh, that's what you were doing. Turning your computer on."

"Yeah. Hey, what's the internet connection here?"

"Um, it's this one." Lindsey leans over me, looks through the possible connections box, and clicks 'HotelBellaMuerte'.

"Really? Hotel Bella Muerte?"

"Don't worry, the password's a little more normal. It's five-twenty-seven. You actually have to type them out as words, though."

"That's a bitch." I start typing 'five'. "Do I need to put hyphens in?"

"Yeah."

I type in the password in, and I get connection. I instantly bring out Chrome and check my emails.

"So, I was wondering."

I look up briefly. "Yeah?"

Lindsey bites her lip, diverts her eyes to the window. I realize that I'm staring at _her_ without makeup. I also begin to make a clearer difference between Lyn-Z, the bassist, and Lindsey... My stepmother.

"Whaddya wanna do with your room?"

"Like, what?"

"Like, what colors do you want to paint it, what do you wanna put in it, stuff like that."

* * *

So, of course, I find myself browsing paint swatches with her at Home Depot thirty minutes later.

"What about these?" I pull out a storm gray, aubergine, and a black.

She raises an eyebrow, but I can see a smirk in her eyes. "Black?"

I shrug. "I've always wanted to see what a black wall looked like."

She breaks into a smile. "Alright, I think we can make that happen." She then frowns. "I get the gray, but purple?"

"I like purple."

We meet eyes for a second. "Alright, whatever."

When we get to the mixing counter, the guy running it looks up between the swatches, and the two of us. "So... Gray, dark purple, and black." He stares at the eyeliner and heavy amount of bracelets on me, at Lindsey's tattoo sleeve.

I think he's decided not to mess.

"All in semi-gloss," I remind him.

"And all gallons?"

"Yeah."

He swallows. His Adam's apple bobs a little. His shaved head glints with the fluorescents, his relatively wide girth wrapped into a trademark orange apron. The name 'Bill' is scribbled on the 'my name is' part.

"Alright, your paint should be ready in about ten or fifteen minutes."

We thank him, and start picking up brushes and such.

"So," Lindsey asks, "What's Southern Colorado like?"

I look up at her, surprised. "Wuh?'

"Oh, you don't have to answer that-"

"No, no, it's fine. It's just... Practically everyone from Colorado knows what it's like, so..." I clear my throat. "I love it there. There are these tall, lush mountains, and there are pine trees on practically every corner of it, and in the winter, they get this, like, powdered sugar coating of snow. And there was this creek right next to Reyna's and my house, and I always swam in it. And the downtown had a bunch of original buildings from the 1800's. And if you drove a few hours, you'd get to the Mesa Verde-Four Corners area, and there... It was crazy, like, the rocks in the mountains immediately changed from dark red, to bright orange. But basically all rocks in Colorado are some shade of red, but that's a geology lesson. It's..." I feel myself choking. "It's just gorgeous, y'know?"

Lindsey casts her eyes down. "Wow. Just... Wow. I... I had no idea-"

"It could be that beautiful?"

"...Yeah."

We stand in silence, staring at paint rollers. I grab a pack of some large ones.

"So, I'm gonna have to ask, since you're from Colorado."

I sigh, rolling my eyes and smiling. "Is is about the Stanley Hotel?"

"Um... Yeah." I scoff, and she makes a sound that might mean 'don't judge me'. "What? I've read Stephen King novels. I've seen The Shining."

"That's why." I laugh. "Yeah, I've stayed there a few times with Reyna. We used to have lunch there whenever we'd be in the area. For my sixteenth birthday, I was planning to stay in room 412 there, since it's one of the most notoriously haunted ones, but... Well, Reyna's cancer came back really bad right then, and her nineteen day life expectancy was given about two weeks later, so I never really got the chance." I shrug. "Maybe, if I ever go back."

I notice my three gallons of paint, and slide over to grab them, Lindsey in tow.

"So, what was your mother like?"

"Oh, Reyna?" I laugh. "Reyna, was... Well, our relationship is kind of hard to explain. I mean, yeah, she was my mother, obviously, but other times, she'd be, like, more of an older sister to me. Other times, she'd be the far too lenient, crazy... I guess, aunt?" I start laughing again. "She was the best of people to be around. She didn't let anything break her. Not her family cutting her off, not raising me by herself, not her cancer. She was invincible, really."

"Why did you call her Reyna?" I give her a look. "As opposed to, I dunno, Mom."

I shrug. "She was nineteen when she had me. She wasn't even of legal drinking age when I started talking. At that age, she didn't need to be called 'Mommy' or 'Mama' or 'Mom'. So she just taught me to call her by her actual name. I guess it stuck." I chuckle. "My Preschool teacher had a heart attack when Reyna picked me up and I didn't call her anything traditional. She hated her even more when she did the math and figured out how old she was when I was born. They were spiteful people, those teachers." I roll my eyes. "My teacher taught the whole class that 'gay is not okay'. Thank God that 'And Tango Makes Three' wasn't in publication by then, or she'd be going on hate rants. By the way, if you haven't read it to Bandit yet, I can assure you that I own a copy of it and will read it to her."

"You... Have... Your own copy of 'And Tango Makes Three'."

"What? It makes me feel warm and fuzzy."

"Warm and Fuzzy."

I raise an eyebrow. "Gotta problem with that?"

"No."

"Good."

Lindsey starts the car. "So, what did she do?"

"Reyna? She was a pop artist. She got famous by the time I was, like, two. Some of her stuff's up in the Pompidou Center in Paris."

Her eyebrows disappear into her hairline. "The big one? Where Warhol's Campbell Soups are?"

"Same one. Reyna made that huge piece where she took letters from, like, logos, and she spelled out a huge suicide note with it."

Lindsey stops pulling the car out to stare at me. "No."

"Why? That was her."

"...You never told me your mother was _Reyna Kensington_."

"Reyna Kensington was her professional name. Legally, she was Reyna Melbourne."

"No, you don't get it." Lindsey's breath hitches, and she looks me dead in the eyes.

_"I met your mother at one of her shows."_

My world has fallen underneath me.


	4. Chapter 4: Oh, My Agony

**A/N: Wow, two posts in a night!**

**So, I'm SO sorry about the delay, for one. I've been getting creatively stuck recently. I blame my recent discovery of the Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte ship. I love it, and I'm not even INTO sports. Also, I'm just stumped. So, here I am, minutes to midnight (LP reference, have at it), cranking out this A/N. So, for announcements, I'm just gonna send you to A Necklace Of Thorns (another of my stories), and let you read that. Also, I want more readers for that story, so... Just give it a chance?**

**Alright, I love you all. Make some noise!**

**~Sunshine**

Thankfully, no one's home when we get back.

As soon as I slam the paint and supplies against the countertop, I turn to Lindsey. "If you met her at her show two years ago, you would have met me, too."

"I don't think I _met_ you, perse, but I do remember seeing you. I met Reyna, and I remember her saying something about you being there. I saw a glimpse of you, but she never gave me your name, and _honey, I wouldn't have made the connection anyways._"

"But you met her."

"I know you must be confused-"

"CONFUSED?" I start breathing heavily. "You met my mother, you met me. Fuck yeah, I'm confused!" I seethe at her. "God. It's a little embarrassing, y'know?" Lindsey looks at me, bewildered face smacked on her. "What? You can imagine how. Christ." I grab the paint and supplies. "I'll be starting on the paint job, FYI."

As soon as I enter the room, I put the things down in the middle of the room, wake my computer up on my bed, click the Skype symbol, and start calling Jake.

His familiar blonde curls and direct, gray eyes meet me through the camera. He's in his room, and dark clouds flood the window behind him, the percussion of rain hitting the glass. He's wrapped in a loose, black, Blink-182 hoodie, and his hands are wrapped around a mug of what I assume to be coffee. He sees me, and grins. "Hey, Indie! How are you?"

I roll my eyes. "I just had a yell fest with my stepmother."

He only grins wider. "Oh, what's Lindsey like?"

"She met my mother at one of her shows."

Jake's face drops. "...Oh."

"Yeah."

He stares into his coffee. "That sucks, man."

I raise an eyebrow. "Man?"

"You _know_ what I mean."

"But yeah."

"That's crazy shit. Seriously, your mother? And what about you? Do you remember meeting her?"

I clear my throat. "Well, now that I think about it, I remember Reyna talking to someone that looked vaguely like her, but some guy who was filming an interview of sorts, and started asking me about shit about being the daughter of one of the 21st Century's most influential artist, blah blah blah."

"That's just... Whoa, y'know?"

"I think I should be the more shocked one, ya think?"

He shrugs.

"Alright, whatever." I shrug. "So, that's my news. What about you?"

"It's raining and I'm lonely. There's no one to beat at Black Ops."

Despite everything, I laugh. "Yeah, right. You know I'll always kick your ass."

"Anyways, what's California like?"

I sigh. "Haven't seen too much. Just a Home Depot and LAX." He cracks up at 'LAX'. "Yeah. Oh, and my new residence." I pick the computer up and scan it around the whole room. "This is my room. That wall-" I point to the one with the sliding door- "Is going to be dark purple, and that one-" I point to the one to the left of it- "Is going to be black, and the other two are going to be gray."

He raises an eyebrow. "Black? I wanna see how this turns out."

"Oh, you'll like it."

"What about your sister?"

I glare at him. "What?"

"Unless we misread that MCR blog post from '09, there happens to be a child in that household by the name of Bandit."

I raise my eyebrow; my turn to. "What about her?"

"What's _she_ like?"

"Fiesty. Sassy. Loud. Even for a child not quite three. She likes having a sister, though. But my first impression wasn't the best of her."

Jake's eyes widen. "What _happened?_"

"She..." I lower my voice. "She walked on me changing clothes."

His jaw drops. "What was lacking?"

"My shirt..."

He pulls his mouth into a smirk. "And lemme guess. You were wearing the _glittery fuchsia bra._"

I blush a brilliant red, I just know I am. "Hey, you dared me to buy that. I wasted twenty bucks at Victoria's Secret on that pieceoshit. Why were even _at_ a mall that day?" I shake my head. "Why did I _listen_ to you?"

He bats his eyelashes. "Because I'm that charming. Because girls listen to me." He pairs it with a wink; I roll my eyes. "And, besides the point, you were _wearing it._"

If it's possible, I blush more. "Shut up."

"So you enjoy your purchase?"

"If you were here, I'd punch you."

"Do you think of me when you wear it?"

_"Jacob Benjamin Wallace, that was a step too far. Shut the fuck up, right now._"

It's his turn to blush when he realizes what he said, despite his shitfaced grin. "But that was a good one, huh?"

"No, it wasn't, asshole."

"You're welcome."

A knock on the door. "Okay, I'm gonna go. Talk to ya later?"

"Yeah. Bye, Indie."

"...Bye, Jake."

As I click the 'disconnect' button, I say, "C'min."

Lindsey slips in. "Hey. Um... One of your rolls of tape fell out while you were getting the bags." She puts the roll on my bed. "I'm just gonna leave this here, all right? Call me if you need anything. I'll just... Leave now-"

"Lindsey."

She turns back to face me. "Indie."

"Lindsey, I'm..." I sigh. "I'm sorry. I really am. I shouldn't of lashed out like you like that, it wasn't fair, it was a bad boundary, and everything else along those stupid, fucking, lines." I bite my lip. "I also would like you to know that I just wasted huge amounts of my dignity on saying that."

She hugs me.

She _hugs_ me.

I decide to hug back.

When she breaks the embrace, she grins. "Wanna start on painting?"

* * *

It's fair to say that in the first full day I've been in California, Lindsey has made it to the same status as Reyna. Bandit's started going up the scale from 'bitch baby sister' since she said that she liked the colors of my room. Then, when Jake called again in the middle of the last wall, when Bandit decided to hop on my bed and watch Lindsey and I paint, and decided she liked _Jake_ (mind you, the same boy who got me into most of my teenage authority troubles), I really started liking that kid.

Gerard remains to be... Gerard.

Especially when he claps his hands as he enters the kitchen the next morning, and announces, "the guys are in town. I've invited them over for dinner, and _don't worry I'm cooking._"

I feel my pulse race a little with fright. "Wuh?"

Lindsey sighs. "The girls coming, too? And Frank's kids?"

Gerard shrugs. "Yeah, probably."

She points a finger. "You better cook _damn well _for them, and you _better_ clean it _up._"

"Yes, ma'am, shall I go trim the rose bushes, too?"

Holy _shit._ He's _sassy._

Someone, for the love of God, tell me that I'm no where _near_ being similar to him.

Lindsey smirks back. "The roses are fine, but scrub the toilet."

His jaw drops; Gerard: 0. Lindsey: 1.

"Oh, yeah, and can you take Bandit to that play date with those triplets down the street at eleven today? Indie and I are going out shopping today."

_We are?_ I think, but I smile and go along with it.

He doesn't have time to really process the sentence before Bandit comes barreling into the kitchen, screaming, "I wan' pancakes!"

I roll my eyes, chuckling. I remember that age.

Gerard picks the tiny child up, cradles her, looks her in the eye, and says, "Bandit, you had pancakes last Saturday."

"But-"

"How about eggs?"

_"Eeeeeeeew!"_ The child shrieks.

"Fruit."

"Bleh."

"Toast, for fu-"

_"Gerard."_

Bandit smiles happily. It's a face that radiates _Daddy almost said something bad._

She is SO cute.

I smirk, and call out, "Bandit, would you eat eggs if I cooked them?" She squirms, and turns to look at me, before nodding furiously. "Awesome."

When I start opening the fridge, Lindsey puts a hand on my shoulder. "Hon, you don't have to cook-"

"No, no, I want to." I find a carton of eggs, take it out, and set it on the counter, before opening the cheese drawer and sifting through it. "Goat cheese. Hey, do you have, like, green onions?" I go through the veggie drawer and find some. "Nevermind. But I'm gonna need a cutting board."

Lindsey stares a little, but she pulls a wooden board from a corner between the counter and the fridge.

Everyone seems to clear out of the kitchen to watch me.

"Oh...Kay." I shrug, turning to the sink, scrubbing the onions and laying them out on the cutting board. I start opening drawers until I find one with sharp knives. I grab a steak knife (hey, no one should judge my choice of utensils), and start cutting them, discarding the roots. "Hey, where are your pans?"

Lindsey speaks up. "The large cabinet next to the stove."

I open it, find a decent sized frying pan, and set it on the stove. "And bowls?"

"Right from the fridge, top one."

I open the cabinet. Towers of various dishes lightly weigh the shelves down. I grab a bowl; it's cream colored with scalloped ridges on the lip. I set it on the counter, open the egg carton, crack a decisive six eggs into it, and call, "forks?"

"Smaller drawer, under the one with the dishes."

The fork is smooth, with a rounded neck. I beat the eggs.

I heat the pan, and after pouring olive oil in it, throwing the green onions into the pan, and stirring it with a wooden spatula for a few seconds, I look up. Gerard and Lindsey's eyes have widened, and Lindsey's jaw has dropped. Bandit just smiles.

"Oh, my God!" I yell, "Don't just stand there, do something! I dunno, toast bread! Set the table! I'm not a chef!"

Gerard scrambles to find the toaster first.

I lose myself in the omelet, pouring egg in bit by bit, cooking the yellow liquid into a solid disk, crumbling goat cheese into it and folding it in half.

By the time food has actually made it to the table, Gerard and Lindsey have pulled off a miracle, setting a table for four, forming a pile of toast, and setting orange juice on it.

Holy fuck, welcome to my life.

* * *

"How about this?" I hold up a shirt. It's black, thin material, with silver feathers traveling down the left side.

"I like it."

As I hang the shirt over my shoulder, I look over my shoulder, at the security guard.

"Indie, are you all right?"

I bite my lip. "Bad things happen when I'm in department stores."

"Like?"

I make a face between a grin and a grimace. "The last time I was in a department store, I was with Jake. We decided to go to the men's area, and we found the ties and bow ties." I sigh. "So, both of us wear ties, right?"

"You wear ties?"

"Yeah, I have, like, ten of them." I clear my throat. "So, first, we start browsing ties, so that gets us weird looks from the security, right? And then, we got the great idea of buying bowties. So, we looked up how to tie bowties, and then bought, like, fifteen between the two of us. But apparently, you're not allowed to tie ties before you've bought them, and we did that, so this security guy came up to us and told us this, and then asked us to leave."

"...And?"

"So, we argued with the guy for about five minutes, then more guards started coming, and finally, the manager gets there, and tells us to leave, so we insisted that we buy, like, five ties and fifteen bowties, so he told us to pay, then leave." I laugh. "They even gave us a forty percent off deal just to get rid of us!"

"Why do I have a feeling that this isn't the worst you've done?"

"Oh, no. When we were three, we hid in a coat rack together, and our mothers thought we had run away, so they made the department shut down so they could find us."

"...You what?"

I look down, smirking. "Punk from the time I could walk."

"You seem to get in a lot of shit with him."

I laugh. "One could say that."

"So, what's he like?"

I give her a look. "Who?"

"Jake."

I shrug, laughing nervously. "What can I say? Jake is... Crazy. He gets stupid ideas that gets us both in trouble. He's... Extremely smart. If he applies himself, he's good at anything he does. He's a phenomenal guitarist. I've never met anyone so devoted to his instrument. I mean, he treats it like his soul." I sigh. "He's been my best friend since we were, like, six and eight months old. We've only been apart from each other for two months over, what, sixteen years, almost? We're basically attached at the hip. Or, were. It's kind of disorienting that he's not next to me all the time."

"...He sounds like a great guy."

I look out to the rest of the department store, wistful.

"Hey."

I look back at her. "Huh?"

"You alright?"

"Um, yeah."

She pulls me into a hug; I don't hesitate to curl into it. "C'mon, let's pay for this shit. I'm scared about what happened back home while we were gone."

* * *

"Jake, what do I do?"

The blonde raises an eyebrow from over the camera. "What's the big deal? I mean, act calm, for one, you're a raging fan-"

"Was."

"God, do _not_ tell me that you're going teen angst because you have unlikely genetics. Anyways. Dress nicely. No band shirts, unless it's like, Queen, or Bowie."

"Dude, I don't have a Bowie shirt."

"You don't? That's sad."

"Yeah, yeah. Can you actually help me?"

"I am. I'm telling you what not to wear. Given that you're living out of a suitcase until your stuff gets to Cali, that helps. A lot."

I turn around, and sift through my bag a little. "Alright... How about... No, toothpaste stain. Um... Dirty-"

"Well, yeah, they're _jeans._ They're supposed to be dirty."

"Yes, which is why we put them through laundry machines."

"Well..." He sighs. "You're a bitch."

"Of course." I turn the computer to face the wall. "I know what I'm wearing."

"Ooh, what? Since, apparently, I can't watch you change-"

"Pervert."

"No, seriously, we've known each other since we were less than a year old. What's the difference?"

"The difference is that I happen to have a C cup, thank you very much."

"Oh, you're welcome. Seriously, what are you wearing?"

"I'm done."

I turn the computer back around, and step back to let Jake see. His jaw drops.

"You... Look great."

I smile down at my attire: black, above-the-knee shorts, silver belt flashing through the loops, gray-and-white-striped tee, and a high collared, blood red jacket, unzipped. The bronzed zipper glints in the light.

"Thanks." I breathe through my nose. "Alright, here we go."

"Say hi to Lindsey and Bandit. And Gerard, if he remembers me."

"Maybe."

The doorbell rings; I tense.

"Alright, goodbye, Jake. Love ya."

"You too. Good luck."

I smile at him as I press the 'end call' button.

I enter the kitchen and stand next to Lindsey, next to a bubbling saucepan of some kind of spicy tomato sauce. Something that sounds like Panic! At The Disco fades into the sounds of the ongoing fan. She smiles at me.

"They are gonna love you, babe," she mutters as she hugs me.

I hear voices of various pitch in the background, a broken conversation. "Hey!" "How are you?" "It's been so long!" "Come in, come in!" "Look at you, you're getting so big!" "How was your trip to New York?" "How's Mom?" "Yeah, they're in, come in, get out of the door..."

I begin to see a mass of people walk into the kitchen like one entity. It's a little frightening. I edge a little closer to Lindsey. She sighs, a little impatiently, and drags me by my hand into the moving creature of voice and volume.

"Hey, everyone!" Lindsey practically yells over everyone, and everyone in the group turns around, eyes lighting up as they spot the dark haired woman. They crowd around her, exchange hugs, greetings, everything. She tries to say something over them, but gets drowned out until they let her go.

"-Meet Indie, everyone!"

My heart might be suffering palpitations.

I mew, "hi," before I get a tackling hug from three people, and a 'welcome to the family' in my ear. I don't know who it comes from. I back away, move out and away from the group, look up, feel the eyes of everyone on me, and I sigh, looking down, shoving my hands into my pockets. I'm ambushed by more words: "Oh, hello!" "So you're Gerard's daughter!" "Hi, Indie!" "That's a gorgeous name!"

I look up to meet their eyes, and one person looks closer than the rest. His mouth falls open, and-

"Holy shit. It can't be."


	5. Chapter 5: And I Just Hope You Know

**A/N: And this one's back in business, too.**

**I kind of got stuck on this one, not knowing how to continue after that MASSIVE cliffhanger last chapter *wink wink nudge nudge*. But, I came up with this. And I really hope you like it, because I cut all my homework time this weekend to crank this bitch out.**

**In other news, I got a SIGNED COPY of Ellen Hopkins's new book, Tilt. Woo! For any of you who don't know who she is, she wrote Crank, which is about a straight-A student who gets addicted to crystal meth. Her writing is amazing, go check her books out. Two: I will be creating a FictionPress account soon so this November, I can post my second novel! I'm planning on titling it 'The Wondrous Ones'. It's about fairies, vampires, an orphaned angel, and one fucking crazy family. Third: I am collabing with the wondrous Inu-Chan the music friend (but you knew that already), but we don't know when our Panic! stories will be up for reads. In the meantime, enjoy my stories, her stories, and a nonexistent picture of a cat eating noodles!**

**TTFN! Ta-tah for now! Sorry, I've been rereading Winnie The Pooh for the nth time.**

**~Sunshine**

So, my new uncle has been staring a little incredulously since dinner started.

Well, one of them, since I'm now referring to all of _Gerard's bandmates_ as my uncles, now.

Frank is hyper, nuts, and a little bit lovable for it; until we sat down, he was giving me hugs every ten seconds. Jamia is surprisingly calm in comparison, sweet and smiley and lovely, and her hair smells like strawberries. Twin, dark haired girls struggle to paddle around at her feet, and a mass that's newborn-baby-pink and blue blanket stirs in her arms, yowling a little. Long story short: the Ieros are a lovely family with beautiful kids.

Ray is a little quieter, actually talking to me like a civil person, rather than Frank's approach of_holyshitGerardhasanotherkidI don'tcarehowoldsheisI'mgonnahughertodeath._ Once everyone's in the house, the first thing he asks is, "How do you like California?"

I respond with a nod, a smile, and an "It's alright, I guess, but the weather's too hot."

Christa seems to do the same, even going to find out about Colorado, and asking about skiing. I laugh, and say I'm alright at the sport. When she asks about snowboarding as well, I tell her that Jake does, and he's amazing at it. She smiles. Her pearly teeth flash in the buttery light.

Alicia is loud, boisterous, and automatically decides as she sees me, "Girl, you are gorgeous and amazing and we should go shopping together." She asks me what kind of trouble I would get into. When I describe T. Asshole Kevin Holloway's house with Jake, she hugs me again and yells, "I approve!"

Mikey... Just stares a little incredulously, like I'm someone he knows, but has never seen. I guess the closest comparison I can create is someone you've heard of, but have only met now.

Dinner involves light conversation, passing of food, and overheard talk of an album.

And Mikey turning every once in a while to steal another glance at me. It's really starting to scare me.

So that's when Frank and Ray turn towards me. As Ray smiles timidly, Frank grins and asks, "Indie, what kind of music do you listen to?"

The question takes me by surprise, and as _everyone at the goddamn table turns to look at me_, I let my eyes widen. "What?"

"We asked what music you like," Ray says.

"Oh! Um... I like a lot of music."

Alicia leans a little over the table. "Like?"

"Um... Why are you all so interested?"

"Well, you are the newest member of this screwed up family of ours, we want to get to know you."

"Um... Oh, okay." I shrug. "Where do I start? I like a lot of different types of music, a lot of artists, a lot of styles. Honestly, what kind of answer do you want from me?"

Alicia shrugs. "Would artists work?"

I sigh. "Do you want me to just start rattling off artists whose music belongs on my iPod?"

"That works."

I shrug. "Screw it. Um... Rejects, Blink, Coldplay, Florence and the Machine, um, The Fray, Gorillaz, Black Keys, White Stripes, Panic, Fun, Lily Allen, Cobra Starship, uh, what else-"

Frank scoffs. "That's a lot."

I shrug. "Yeah?"

Before Frank can make some comment on my tastes in music, Ray pipes up. "Any instruments?"

Lindsey answers for me. "She would say she plays piano, but she makes that instrument her bitch." She gasps, realizing the profanity, and turning around to look at the three girls in the middle of the rug in the adjacent room. "Oh, good, they didn't hear me."

As a few chuckles rumble across the table like distant thunder, I roll my eyes. "I'm alright, considering the time I've played."

"How long's that been?"

"Since I was seven. Nine years."

I see all of them doing the math. Frank's brow creases. Christa speaks up. "So are you a junior, or-"

"Sophomore," I say, "I just turned sixteen last month."

"Oh! Cool. So, are you going to be going to school...?"

I turn to Gerard, letting the judging seep from my eyes. He stops chewing, and turns beet red. "Oh, um... Yeah! Of course she will!"

"Wait, what-"

"We just haven't been able to submit all the application papers yet."

Oh, shit, really?

"There's a high school, like, two blocks away. We're going to talk to them in a couple days."

Oh. _Oh._

Frank laughs. "Well, Gerard has actually gotten his shit together."

Everyone else, minus myself, laughs; part because Frank's comment was apparently funny, partially so Bandit and the twins don't hear the swear, partially to hide Gerard's embarrassment. Funny.

_Really_ fucking funny.

When everyone's done, I stand. "Can I take people's plates?"

Jamia stands as well. "I'll help you."

"Indie, Jamia, you don't have to," Lindsey starts-

"No, we're gonna." She smiles at me. "Right, Inds?"

Inds?

Whatever.

I smile back, a little nervously. "Yeah, sure." I nudge Lindsey. "Gimme that."

The woman rolls her eyes, but she hands me the plate eventually. I pick up a few more plates, Jamia picking up the rest, and we journey towards the sink.

As I start the water, open the dishwasher, and run lukewarm water over a fistful of silverware, Jamia nudges me with her shoulder. "Hey."

I nudge back. "Hey."

"So," she starts, "How long have you been vegetarian?"

"Born and raised. I don't remember a time in my life that I haven't been."

"Have you ever had a piece of meat in your life, even?"

I shrug. "I tried a piece of salmon once, when I was little. I didn't really like it."

"Cool." She pauses. "So I have to ask."

"What?"

"How are you liking living with Gerard and Lindsey?"

I shrug. "It's alright. I get along really well with Lindsey. Gerard... I just don't like being around him."

"So you've already manifested the stereotypical father-teenage daughter relationship." I give her a look. "Hey, don't deny it."

I sigh, lowering my voice. "It's not that I'm angry that I have a dad now. I mean, this is a much better fate than the alternative of being in the foster care system. It's just... He doesn't know how to cope with two things: that now, he's got a sixteen year old daughter, and two, she's not one of the soldiers in his army." I lower my voice even more, before adding, "not anymore."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Think about it like this. When I was born, Gerard was only a few weeks away from turning twenty. He was still a teenager when I was born. Thank God he didn't know me then, I mean, I would have probably screwed up his whole life, for one. Also, he's got a three year old. A three year old whom, until recently, he knew to be his only child. Don't get me wrong, I love Bandit, I think she's a great kid. And Gerard is a great dad. For Bandit. He can't handle being the parent to opinions, bizarre clothes, a foul mouth, and haywire, horomone-inflicted emotion. At least, not so suddenly."

She nods. "I think I see your point. You're saying that Gerard is a little bit irresponsible, both in the sense that you were born when you were, and that you don't think he's mature enough of a parent yet."

I smile. "Exactly."

She shrugs. "Just give him a chance. Or two. Or ten. He'll get it right. You also have to think that he's probably scared as to everything you do. He probably - no, he definitely - wants you to not make the same mistakes as him."

I shrug. "I guess."

I feel a skinnier form than Jamia and I snake between us. "Can I help?"

Jamia rolls her eyes, smirking and shoving her away. "'Licia, get outta here. You're a bass tech, not a talented household cleaner."

"Hey, I can always learn."

"Just go back to the table and talk to everyone else." She doesn't move. "Go! Shoo."

Alicia raises her arms in surrender. "Yes, ma'am!"

I giggle a little as Jamia chuckles into the plate she's scanning a sponge over. "Is she always like that?"

She nods, laughing. "Yeah, you can say that."

* * *

Because I never pay attention, I wake up the next morning, pad into the kitchen in cotton sleep shorts and a large hoodie, and find Alicia in the kitchen, noticing me and grinning madly. "You ready to go?"

Wait.

Why is she here, and where are we going?

Lindsey laughs lightly. "'Licia, she's still asleep."

My eyes widen. "Wuh, huh?"

Both women laugh. Alicia folds her arms. "Indie, your uncle and I are taking you out today."

"Waitwhat - _Oh!_" I yell, realizing. "Oh, wait." I shake my head. "When did this happen?"

"Last night?"

I smile nervously, hardly meeting the dark haired woman standing next to Lindsey. "Was this when I was doing the dishes? Because I swear, I wasn't listening to a word."

"Why?"

I shrug. "That tends to happen when you have three screaming girls at your feet."

Lindsey folds her arms. "Indie, go get dressed, breakfast is going to be ready."

"What, I can't prance around in my pajamas?"

Eyebrow raise. "Prance around?"

Shrug. "Yeah?"

Eye roll. "Whatever."

Smirk. "Not like you have a problem with it."

Head shake. "Just today. And I'm letting you leave the house in that."

Sigh. "Fine! If you insist."

As I stalk back to my room, I call back, "But you're going to have to live with it!"

I finally decide to instead of letting all my clothes tangle in my suitcase, unpack them, fold them, remove black cargo shorts and a red off-the-shoulder tee, and a gray tank, and slide them into a corner of the room. I dress, nothing else to it. I consider Skyping Jake, until I remember that he's probably out of the house by now. Maybe another attempt to get that job at the bookstore downtown. Or the one at the ice cream shop. Or the one at the King Soopers.

When I slide out of the room to go find my Converse, Bandit runs out of some room with a loud bang and more giggles. I see a flash of dark hair and red shirt go after the giggling child with a hissed/screamed "Get back here!" Another, slower, more defined mass snakes out of the door she came from, shaking back and forth with laughter. I turn to see who it is.

Michael James Way turns to look at me, all two-toned hair and Ray-Bans and surprisingly wide grin. "Hi."

I stride to the kitchen, eyebrows receding into my hairline. "...Hi."

I see that Gerard has captured Bandit, who's hysterically screaming, "Lemmegolemmegolemmego!"

So of course, I pick her out of Gerard's arms and mutter, "Bandit, calm down." She's still screaming. I sing, "Lady Beeeeeeeee..."

She shuts up. I put her down.

"Whoa," Alicia says, "Toddler Whisperer."

After a very late breakfast, Alicia asks, "So have you found your shoes?"

I try to answer, only to find Bandit prancing around the house with my size 9, black hi-tops being used as gloves. I grab them off her wrists, much to the child's protests. "Sorry, Bumblebee, but these are mine." I flop on the living room couch, and start lacing the shoes on my feet. "So where are we going?"

"Old Town Pasadena, why?"

"Oh! I haven't been there since I was nine."

"You went there?"

I shrug. "My mother wanted to take me to Pasadena. She loved it in the eight or so months she lived in LA. Besides, she had a show there."

"What did your mom do?"

"She was an artist," Lindsey cuts in, picking Bandit up and balancing the dark-haired girl on her hip. "Ever heard of Reyna Kensington?"

"I think I've heard of her, she was kind of at the same level as Chuck Close, right, like, modern artist? What does Chuck Close even do?"

"He does realism. And Reyna was way better."

"What did she do?"

"Pop art. Warhol was her complete idol. One of her best pieces is in France. She took giant magazine letters and created a suicide note out of it."

Her eyebrows raise. "Whoa." She shakes her head. "But you said her last name was Kensington. Lindsey told me that your name was Melbourne-Way-"

"It was a fake name - Wait, _Melbourne-Way?_"

Lindsey nods. "Yeah, why?"

I tuck my chin a little into my chest, making me look really concentrated in tying my right shoelaces. "...I thought my name had just been changed to Way. Who decided this?"

"Your father did, why?"

It takes a little while for my brain to process that _my father_ means Gerard. "Oh."

It takes even longer for my brain to process that Gerard made a conscious effort to let me keep my name, despite me having to change it for legal purposes.

It will take me forever to let myself know that he cared before he knew me.

* * *

I fidget in the backseat, perch left leg over right.

"We turn here-"

"No, Mikey, I swear it's the next exit-"

"My brother told me it was this exit!-"

"Yeah, and he gives really bad directions!-"

"I trust him!-"

"No, see that? Pasadena, next two exits!"

"...Oh."

Alicia huffs. "See?" She turns around. "Indie, I'm sorry you had to hear that."

I giggle a little. "Kidding me? I miss this kind of shit."

Alicia gives me a look. Mikey's eyes turn to look at me through the rearview mirror. "Huh?"

I shrug, my grin reduced to a smirk. "Reyna and Charlie never agreed on directions. Reyna was usually right, though."

Mikey speaks, for once. "Charlie was...?"

"My stepfather. He died in a car crash when I was eleven."

"I'm sorry."

"It's cool. I'm kind of desensitized because of it by now."

"Because of... Reyna?"

"I guess."

Alicia turns back to me again as Mikey pulls a right - in to the exit, yes - and asks, "So, how did you find out Gerard was your dad? Since I'm assuming your-" She clears her throat- "Reyna never told you."

"A neighbor of ours was a lawyer. He cracked into the woman's safes at the back of the closet and voila, instant evidence."

"Like?"

"My actual birth certificate."

"Oh, and - Oh. Oh. _Oh._"

"Yeah."

We make it to this brick old-town street mall. It reminds me of BoCo, when we still lived in outer Denver. Liberal, natural, and a little hipster. I like it.

"So, I have to know," Alicia starts, "Why Independence? Why'd she chose that name?"

I chuckle. "Do you want to hear the most bullshit, hippie, annoying thing that's happened to me?"

"Yeah, sure, can't hurt."

I sigh. "Where do I start? My mother was doing a piece for a multi-artist show in Denver when she was pregnant with me. So my godmother - then my mother's best friend - was from Leadville, which is this stupid mountain town with a mine, more museums than what should be in a town that small, and a boast for the US's highest post office, altitude wise. And it's right next to this pass, it's called Independence Pass. So a week before my mother had me, my godmother took her over the pass, and, well... That pass is kind of hard not to fall in love with, once you can drive it."

"Godmother? Wouldn't you be in her custody?"

"Amanda died in a plane crash when I was seven."

"...Oh, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright."

"What plane?"

"It was a glider plane. They're surprisingly common in the area, and, well, crashes happen maybe three times a year. She just happened to be unlucky."

Silence hangs over the three of us for a second. "So you fell in love with a road?"

I give Mikey a look. "Have you been to Colorado, ever?"

She shrugs. "I might have been to Denver. Once."

I sigh. "Nothing really describes it. I'll... You know what?"

"What?"

"I'll just show you pictures."

We pass a boutique, with a 40% off sales rack set in front. I stop and start sifting through sales; Alicia joins me. At one point, I pick out a loose, red tee to look at. I decide I don't like it when I notice the giant yellow flower on the front.

"Yeah, that was ugly," she mutters.

"Mmnh."

I turn around, and notice that two black-and-red clad girls have walked up to Mikey, curiously, unsure. When he turns to greet them and they recognize him, their eyes light up, and they both grin madly. One of them reaches for an area of her bag, and my uncle signs it. The other exposes the shoulder of her tee. They both get photos, and then, with a faint, "Thanks, Mikey!" they're off.

"You didn't cut in?"

Alicia shakes her head. "You have to know when to stay in and when to stay out of things."

* * *

More than a few hours later, we end up walking into an Asian fusion restaurant.

The place is called The Crane. It's a relatively tall, wide building closer to the Way's house, with red walls and scribbly, golden letters perched on top spelling out the name of the restaurant. The doors are a nice, dark green.

We walk in, and there's a girl in a floaty pink dress up front. She looks about eighteen, and smiles behind slim, rectangular glasses. "Hello, welcome to The Crane, are you planning to dine at a table or the bar?"

As Mikey says, "Let's get a table," Alicia speaks up. "Can we get a table? There's three of us."

The girl smiles, grabs three menus, and steps out from behind her podium. "This way, please."

We follow her to a small table with a booth. Alicia and I immediately take the booth. I give Mikey a dirty look, she sticks her tongue out. He rolls his eyes, mutters, "Girls," and sits down in the normal chair.

Pink Dress Girl also sets a paper sheet and a pencil down. "Our happy hour just started fifteen minutes ago, and it runs till seven, alright?"

"Thanks," I say as she walks off. I fold my hands and lean on my forearms. "Let's do happy hour."

Alicia grins in agreement, grabbing the paper and aligning the minuscule pencil in her hand. "You're vegetarian, right?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. So let's get an avocado roll, and how about a seaweed salad roll?"

"Yeah."

"There's a veggie roll. Avocado, cucumber, and strawberry. Huh."

"Let's try it."

"Alright. And they have a sweet potato tempura roll, do we-"

"Yes, we do. We want two. Just trust me on this."

She gives me a look through the side of her eyes. "Alright, I trust you, Indie. If I don't like it, I will find some form of revenge."

"Haha."

A waitress comes, dropping off three glasses and smiling. Her grin is wide, her teeth straight and pearly. Her nametag reads Kayla. We thank her, and continue the devastatingly difficult conversation of sushi.

"Hey, they have a tamago roll, do you want to try it?"

"Sure."

She puts one down, and turns to Mikey. "Hey, spicy tuna?"

"Yeah, put two down. Do they have a salmon roll?"

"Salmon, and Philly roll."

He considers. "Wanna try the Philly?"

She marks a 1 next to the box marked 'Philadelphia Roll'. "We're just being adventurous today, aren't we?" Mikey and I both make 'mmnh' sounds. "Hey, should I also get a round of miso soups?"

"Seaweed salad as well?"

She smirks. "You're getting the roll, but yeah."

Alicia marks everything down, and sets the paper at the end of the table. "Awesome."

Kayla comes back, grabbing the sheet. "Hello, my name's Kayla and I'm going to be your waitress this afternoon. Is this everything, or would you like something to drink?"

Mikey answers. "Would three green teas be too hard?"

"Not at all! Yeah, I'll get those to you, just a sec." She points to the menus. "Can I take those?"

We hand the menus to her.

As she walks off, Alicia gets up. "Hey, I'm going to the bathroom. Indie, come with?"

"Nah, I'm fine."

She gets up.

I turn to Mikey. "Okay, you've been giving me weird looks since last night, and since your wife is gone, I'm going to interrogate you know. Why the looks?"

He's silent for a few long moments.

"You look so much like Reyna. Except for a few things, you look like a splitting image of her."

I tense up. "What?"

He nods. "You have Gerard's nose, and your hair is definitely from the Italian side of the family-" he smiles, barely, as he says that- "But other than that, it's freaky, how close you look to her."

"...When did you meet Reyna?"

He grins. "I met Reyna when she and my brother were in Freshman year. I think I was your age when I met her. February of that year, Gerard dragged that poor girl to Jersey to meet our parents and Elena. Our dad was alright with her, but I remember he said she was too short."

"Well, the woman was five-two. Why do you think I'm so short?"

He grins. "True." He clears his throat. "But our mom really liked her. I think she was kind of rooting for Gerard to marry her right then." I feel an odd twist in my gut, but I let Mikey continue anyways. "Elena was all over her, though. As soon as she found out that Reyna was an artist, she was all over her." he huffs, his smile getting a little wider. "I really liked her when I met her. I thought she was good for Gerard. It was funny, when she met me, she called me adorable and told me she was going to keep me in her closet and feed me fish food."

I laugh. "Oh, God, that's her."

"And then, when she left... Gerard was completely heartbroken. He drank for a while, a couple weeks only, thank God, but still. I couldn't stand watching him do that to himself. I didn't even understand why Reyna broke up with him. All Gerard told me was that she didn't want a long-distance relationship, and she could be in LA for forever. That's all she said, and I didn't even know what happened to her." He shrugs. "Seventeen years later, Gerard calls me, and tells me that Reyna died, but not before giving birth to and raising his kid for the time in between." He pauses. "No offense."

"None taken."

Alicia sits back down. "What were you two doing while you were missing me?"

I grin at her. "Uncle-niece bonding time?"

She rolls her eyes.

Kayla comes back, slipping a delicate, white and blue mug in front of each of us. "Your food's gonna be coming out in about ten minutes, is that alright?"

"Yeah, totally."

Alicia leans back into the booth, cupping the mug of tea and holding it to her chest. "Well, this is peaceful-"

_SLAM!_

We all jump, turning to the door, where two kids walk in. They both look about my age, with wavy, black hair, and skin that reminds me of a mocha latte. One of them's a girl, in black jeans and a blue tee with white letters: meh. The other, a boy, wears dark wash skinnies and a black t-shirt for what looks like South By Southwest.

Pink Dress Girl at the front jumps, but then grins in recognition. "Just go to your table, Momma's gonna be out to talk to you all in two minutes."

The girl huffs. "Thank you so much."

I catch bits of their conversation:

"Bastard Crowley, what an ass."

"What was it even for?"

"I know, right?"

"They had no right to call my sister a whore."

"Whatever, I can take it."

"Free, I know you can, but that doesn't mean it's alright - Momma!"

A plump, Asian woman who could be in her early fifties approaches the table, talking in a belty Chinese accent. "You two! How you've been?"

"Fine, Momma, and you?" The guy asks.

"Fine, fine, baby. How school?"

"Bad," the girl says, "Tons of homework. He nearly got expelled today."

The woman turns to the guy. "What you do?"

"I punched a guy. He tried grabbing Free's boobs."

The woman turns to the girl. "So sorry, girl." She claps. "You have homework. Usual?"

"Yes, please, Momma," the girl says.

Grinning, the woman - Momma - turns back to the kitchen.

I catch eyes with the girl. I nod. She does so, back, before resuming to talk to who I'm assuming is her brother.

"Well, that was bizarre," I say.

* * *

"Hello, welcome to Franklin High school! I'm Principal Vaughn. You are..." The old, blonde-gray haired man glances down at a manila file. "Gerard, and you're her dad, I assume, and you're Lindsey. The stepmom?" His serious, gray eyes fall on me. "And you're... Independence."

I nod. "I am."

Judging that Gerard currently doesn't have crazy-colored hair, right now, he seems normal. However, Lindsey felt bold enough to wear a cap sleeve that bares her entire sleeve, and yeah, he seems scared.

Lindsey: 1. Asshole Principal: 0.

He smiles disdainfully at me, my black shorts, Green Day shirt, folded arms, hair in face, black eyeliner, scowl. He decides to turn back to Gerard, deeming him the safest person to talk to. "So, Independence is how old?"

"I'm sixteen-"

"She's sixteen. It should be in that folder," he snaps. Oh, THANK GOD he's finally defending me.

Gerard: 1. Asshole Principal: 0.

The principal's ashen lips fall into a line. "Of course." He looks down. "And she was moved into your custody after living with her mother. Did you, what, fight for her custody? Was she a bad parent?"

I speak up, forcing him to listen to me. "I lived in Colorado, and my mother was an amazing woman. She died of ovarian cancer that had metastasized to her brain. Gerard fought for nothing of the like."

He nods. "I am sorry for your loss, Independence-"

"Please, Principal Vaughn. Call me Indie."

"Actually, can I call you Veronica, since it's a normal name-"

_"You can call me Indie, thank you very much._"

He nods. "I see." He turns back to Gerard. "And what classes was she in before? Because I doubt she would have signed up for all IB classes on her own-"

"Mr. Vaughn?"

He rolls his eyes, but acknowledges me. "Yes, _Indie._"

"I am a straight-A student and am aiming at receiving my IB diploma when I graduate. If you are imagining me as a ditcher, or a bad student, then I'm sorry, but you're making a very grave mistake. You're also doing something called stereotyping, which is not suitable for your job. And on top of that? You can stop talking to the man sitting on the left of me, I can answer questions for myself."

He nods. "I see." He looks down at the paper, and then back up, smiling. "What's your favorite color, Indie?" He says it slowly.

I lean in, and smirk. "Mr. Vaughn, I am very close to not enrolling into your school. You know what that means? That means that your school gets less money. You know what that means for you? You get a smaller paycheck. Also, I would be a valuable asset to your _institution_, given that I am setting an example for your students by entering in the full IB program. You're just showing me, right now, that you don't deserve your job. I'm disappointed, Vaughn. You run things terribly."

That shuts him up.

"I am so sorry, all three of you. I was extremely conceited." He smiles. "Do you want to go on a tour of the school?"

Ways: 3. Asshole Principal: 0.


End file.
